


Fondue for Two

by Zayrastriel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Fondue, I have no idea what this is apologies, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-05
Updated: 2012-09-05
Packaged: 2017-11-13 15:06:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zayrastriel/pseuds/Zayrastriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn't have to like food to like fondue <br/>(or to like John Watson eating it.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fondue for Two

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what this is, or why this is, I'm so sorry.

John sighs, leaning his back against the wall, close to the corner of the room so as to avoid as much attention as is humanly possible, while still being able to keep an eye on Sherlock so he’ll know just when he gets sick of mouthing niceties and starts telling truths.

It’s one of those dreary, horrifically monotonous dinner parties that Sherlock, and by extension, John, always gets invited to; by which John means that Sherlock is invited and, in an attempt to outrage as many conservative rich bigots as possible, drags John along as his _date_ , touching him more than often and violating his personal space in ways that would have discomfited him six months ago (and John isn’t sure what to think of them now, but-)

“ _How’s the party, John_?” Sherlock whispers in his ear, soft and caressing.

Without looking, John turns slightly and punches Sherlock in the stomach; not hard, but enough to elicit a wince of pain and a muttered gasp of “that was really quite unnecessary.”

“So was sneaking up on me for the millionth time, you moron,” John replies flatly, settling back against the relative comfort of his wall.  “What do you want?”

No response, which isn’t really surprising.

What is surprising is that, when John glances across, Sherlock isn’t there anymore; normally when he comes to bother John at functions like this, he’s more persistent than this.

“I’m not going to go look for him,” John tells himself.

He lasts all of about five minutes.

 

~

 

“Fondue.”

“Yes John, oddly enough I noticed,” Sherlock says sharply – or at least, he _tries_ to say sharply, around the chocolate-dipped strawberry shoved with little grace into his mouth.

“Fondue.”

Sherlock glares at him as he chews.

He shakes his head, but the confusion doesn’t seem to be clearing up.  “I’m sorry, you – you wanted to tell me about _fondue_?”

It comes out a little more incredulous than he’d intended; and sure enough, Sherlock pushes off the wall to straighten to his full height, raising his chin in a far-too familiar look of offended disdain. 

Somehow, John finds himself looking up – not to meet Sherlock’s eyes, but at juice-stained lips. 

“If you-“

John, who’d had to sit through a good hour of Mycroft not-so-subtly threatening him with…something…if he let Sherlock make a scene, already knows where this is going and decides to cut him off as soon as possible.

“No no no,” he says hastily, raising his hands in what is probably far too defensive a gesture.  “I like fondue.  Fondue is good.  I haven’t seen fondue in _years_.” To emphasise his point he reaches for a strawberry, trying not to turn away from Sherlock as he dips it in chocolate and brings it to his mouth.

John had meant the motion to be a distraction; to pull Sherlock away from whatever ground of righteous annoyance he felt he was entitled to.

But it has been a while since John has had strawberries, and an even longer while since he’s had _chocolate_ (not the crappy one pound chocolate from the store down the street but real, amazing chocolate) and without intending to he finds his eyes fluttering closed as he savours the meld of sweetness and rich, tangy juice in his mouth.

At some point he comes back down to Earth with a jolt of realisation; his eyes snap open and his lips part, because he can feel Sherlock’s gaze on him, dark and strangely intense, the usual grey swirled through with flecks of violet.

“I.  Um.”  He has to say something.  “I thought you weren’t into the whole eating thing.  For fun,” he adds because in all fairness, Sherlock eats.  Sometimes not at all, sometimes all day (and night) but it does happen.  Actually, if someone were bother to average out Sherlock’s eating habits over the past year, John actually thinks it might look like something vaguely resembling _normal_.

Sherlock doesn’t reply, just stares at him.  Self-consciously, John bites his lip and tastes chocolate (probably what Sherlock’s staring at, the judgemental bastard.)  Without really thinking about what he’s doing, John lets his tongue dart out to lick at the remnants.

When it’s gone, John refocusses on Sherlock – whose eyes flicker away from his mouth just a little too late.  Something flickers in his stomach, unsettling but strangely pleasant, and he can’t help but smile as a slight flush rises in his roommate’s pale cheeks.

“…Sherlock?  Sherlock, are- where are you going?”

“Home.  I’m _bored_ ,” Sherlock says loudly, not even bothering to turn around to look at John as people send reproachful glances in his direction.  “Are you coming or not?”

John laughs quietly as he follows.


End file.
